Suttle had obviously been charged with pulling together the day’s intelligence. He bent to his notepad, flipped through a couple of pages, then looked up.
‘This is what we know for sure,’ he began. ‘Mackenzie’s daughter flew to Vigo on Saturday. I’ve got the flight details. I’ve also been working through Interplod and they put a local cop into the airport this afternoon and talked to the rental companies. Interplod are saying that Mackenzie’s daughter hired a car at the airport and mentioned she was going to a place called Baiona. Their bloke did a quick check on the big hotels there and struck lucky. She was staying at -’ he looked down at his pad to check the name ‘- the Fonda Perla de Cuba. That same Saturday night a Nikki Garfield also checked in. That has to be Garfield’s wife. She and Mackenzie’s daughter had dinner together and Esme put the bill on her tab. Garfield checked out on Sunday afternoon, Esme flew back today.’
‘And who else was there?’ Willard was enjoying this.
‘Winter, sir. He booked in on Sunday. Booked out yesterday. One of the waiters saw Winter and Esme on the terrace with a couple of other guys on Sunday. These guys were Spanish. That’s all we know.’
‘But there was something else, wasn’t there?’ Willard was looking at Parsons. Parsons told him to be patient. The best was evidently yet to come.
‘Jimmy?’ she said.
‘The Interplod guy picked up something else at the airport. He hasn’t had a chance to check the CCTV yet but he thinks something might have kicked off in one of the car parks. Apparently the girl on the rental desk told him that when Nikki Garfield returned the car she had blood on her dress. There was a guy with her too. And he was in a right mess.’
‘So what does this tell us?’ Willard again.
‘I can’t be sure, sir. The waiter at the Baiona hotel is pissed off with the management because everybody knows the place is up for sale and he thinks the owner’s going to screw him out of redundancy money. According to him, Garfield and Mackenzie’s daughter are buying it between them. We can’t prove that, not yet, but the daughter’s been there before, at least a couple of times according to the waiter, so that would make sense.’
Willard nodded.
‘We’ve got contact details for the waiter and the rental girl?’
‘Yeah. Interplod have been brilliant. Textbook stuff.’
‘How about airport security?’
‘They’re onto that. My man says he’ll bell me first thing tomorrow.’
‘Excellent. What about Garfield?’ Willard was looking at Parsons now.
‘I talked to the Met again this evening. To be frank they’re not that helpful but they confirmed again that Garfield’s the subject of a major investigation. They pulled him in at the end of last week and managed one extension but got knocked back on the other.’
Willard nodded. A uniformed Superintendent could extend twenty-four-hour custody by a further twelve hours. After that it was in the hands of the magistrates.
‘What happened?’
‘He’s got a shit-hot lawyer and he managed to keep them at arm’s length but reading between the lines they’re obviously light on evidence. I ended up talking to the Detective Superintendent in charge. They’ve bailed Garfield until the end of June. As far as he’s concerned it’s just a matter of time.’
‘So the investigation’s definitely under way?’
‘Big time. They’ve thrown lots of resource at it, surveillance teams in Spain, lots of covert, lots of sneaky-beaky. Garfield’s high priority, no question.’
Mention of covert had sharpened Willard’s interest still further. ‘Has Mackenzie’s name come up?’
‘They’re aware of our interest. When I put it to them straight, tabled Mackenzie’s name, they refused to comment, but the answer’s yes, I’d put my life on it. He’s in there with Garfield on the hotel deal, and probably all kinds of other stuff as well.’
‘Knowing Garfield’s bent?’ It was Faraday this time, the first tiny hint of dissent. ‘Why on earth would he take the risk?’
‘Because he’s reckless, Joe. And because we might have overestimated him. He’s a Copnor boy, through and through. Once a scrote …’ Willard shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Parsons wanted to know where Willard wanted to take this inquiry next. For the sake of keeping everything neat and tidy it was important to maintain a clear focus. Operation Causeway had been mounted to resolve the kidnapping of Mackenzie’s grandchild. This latest flurry of enquiries, whilst an offshoot of Causeway, would presumably lead somewhere else.
‘Of course.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘To Mackenzie’s arrest. And his daughter. And Winter, for that matter. This is prima facie, Gail. We have evidence, or near-evidence, that Mackenzie has gone into some kind of partnership with Garfield. Garfield is already under active investigation. That means grounds exist for believing that he leads a criminal lifestyle. Anyone who does business with him is tainted by that lifestyle. Mackenzie, for whatever reason, has done exactly that. Game, set and fucking match.’ He beamed at Faraday, a fellow survivor from Tumbril. ‘Right, Joe?’
‘Right, sir. So what do we do?’
‘We pull him in tomorrow. Early doors. In fact we pull the lot of them in. All three. That launches the investigation. And by doing that we can trigger the restraint order and freeze his assets.’
‘He’s just had his grandson kidnapped.’ It was Suttle. ‘Aren’t we being a bit hasty, sir?’
Willard waved the consideration away. ‘This is about crime, son. Not hearts and minds. Mackenzie’s been taking the piss for far too long. Winter as well. There’s no way we’re going to nail them in interview, not first time round, but we have to get the ball rolling. Joe? You agree?’
Faraday was gazing at Parsons. Early doors meant dawn arrests.
‘So who’s going to organise this?’
‘You are, Joe.’ She smiled. ‘You’re happy with that?’
Winter, despairing, took himself off for a walk. The danger, he knew, was acute. Ever since he’d started to work for Bazza Mackenzie he’d recognised the sheer scale of the challenge that lay ahead. The very things that so often made the man a joy to be with - his instinct for the killer move, his delight in running rings round the competition, his contempt for the boring and the ordinary - were equally a handicap when it came to taking advice. He never listened. He always assumed - knew - that he was in the right. Winter, with a lifetime of manipulation behind him, had quickly sussed how to channel Bazza’s wild energy, how to torpedo some of his crazier schemes, but he’d always been aware that something enormous might suddenly turn up and swamp them both. That something had arrived and yet Bazza still couldn’t see it.
At the kitchen table Winter had done his best. They were up against classy opposition. Faraday and Suttle knew what they were about. The Met were definitely crawling all over Garfield. He and Bazza, and Esme too, had precious little time to block the holes in their little stockade and keep the Apaches at bay. Bazza didn’t begin to see this, partly because it wasn’t in his nature to do the Filth any kind of favour, but mostly because he couldn’t stop thinking about his grandson. He’d always been especially proud of Guy. The boy was gutsy, a bit of a scrapper. He was bright too, and funny. If it was true that the better genes jumped a whole generation then there was no one prouder than Bazza Mackenzie.
Winter looked back at the house before he stepped out onto the pavement. Marie, he knew, had introduced Mo Sturrock to the kids, and as far as he was aware Mo was still up with them. Half nine was late for five-year-olds but just now time seemed to have lost any meaning. He thought of Stu in the kitchen, nursing yet another can of Stella, of Esme still sulking in the spare room upstairs, of Bazza drinking himself insensible in his den, and wondered whether every family enterprise was doomed to end this way, in a car wreck of blame and recrimination, any hope of rescue slipping remorselessly away.
He wandered down the road and headed for the seafr
ont. The last embers of a decent sunset were dying in the west and a thin grey mist hung over the Solent. There were strings of coloured lights on the promenade and the warmth of the evening had drawn couples out for an evening stroll. Winter paused for a moment at the seawall, smelling the heat still rising from the pebbles, knowing how much this city meant to him. He’d spent most of his working life policing the battlefield. Lately, he’d had a lot of fun on the other side of no-man’s-land. He understood the place. He spoke its many languages. He was totally fluent in Pompey. And, perhaps for that reason, he had absolutely no illusions about what lay ahead. Unless someone took the initiative, he was fucked.
Faraday was on the point of retiring early when the doorbell went. Between them, he and Jimmy Suttle had put together a couple of D/Cs and a WPC for tomorrow’s expedition to Craneswater. They were to meet at Kingston Crescent at half past three in the morning to be at Mackenzie’s place by four. Now, barefoot, he opened the front door. It was Winter.
Faraday stared at him. In six hours he’d have this man under arrest.
‘Inviting me in, boss? Or shall we do it here?’
‘Do what?’
Winter didn’t answer. After a moment’s hesitation Faraday stepped aside and let him in. Winter walked through to the lounge and made himself comfortable on the sofa.
‘You’ll need a pad and paper, boss,’ he said. ‘I want to keep this thing official.’
Faraday didn’t quite believe it. ‘What thing?’
‘I want to make a disclosure under the provisions of the Proceeds of Crime Act, 2002. That OK with you, boss?’
‘You’re talking like a lawyer.’
‘Funny that. You remember Nelly Tien?’
‘I do.’
‘I’ve asked her to drive down.’
‘Now? At this time of night?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter checked his watch. ‘She’s just moved to a big place in Petersfield. She should have been here by now.’
Nelly Tien was Mackenzie’s lawyer, a ferocious Hong Kong Chinese who defended his interests with considerable guile. She arrived minutes later, a busy swirl of expensive Italian leather behind a bow wave of Coco Chanel. She extracted an audio recorder from her briefcase and stationed it carefully on the low table in front of the sofa. Faraday gazed at her in wonderment.
‘This is totally inappropriate,’ he said. ‘I could do you both for invasion of privacy.’
‘You invited me in, boss,’ Winter pointed out. ‘You should have told me to fuck off.’
‘Good idea. So why don’t you?’
‘Because we have a pressing need to make an authorised disclosure, Mr Faraday.’ It was Tien. She’d pressed the Record button. ‘My clients are under extreme pressure, as you know. Naturally you want to limit knowledge of the kidnapping. Making this disclosure in the normal way is therefore not an option. We could go to the Bridewell and make a statement but that might jeopardise your handling of the kidnap.’
Faraday gazed at her. This was nonsense but it was clever nonsense.
‘We’re still talking the Proceeds of Crime Act?’
‘We are.’
‘With regard to money laundering?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then I don’t understand. If you’re anticipating some kind of action on our part with regard to money laundering what does that have to do with the kidnap?’
‘It has everything to do with it, Mr Faraday. My clients are in no state to make rational decisions. In Mr Winter’s judgement, and in mine, there have been business oversights on their part that require addressing.’
‘But why the urgency? Why now?’
‘Because we don’t wish to add to their problems. And neither, I assume, do you.’
This was doubly clever. Nelly Tien was playing the human rights card. Faraday turned his attention to Winter. Either he’d got wind of tomorrow morning’s arrests or he’d simply worked it out for himself. The latter was by no means beyond him. As ever, he was ahead of the game.
Faraday told her to carry on. Under the circumstances, short of throwing them out he could do little else. She pulled a notepad from her briefcase, announced the date, time and persons present for the benefit of the tape, and invited Winter to make his report on the family’s behalf. Faraday’s living room had become an interview suite.
Winter went through the Baiona property deal. How, in good faith, Mackenzie and his daughter had mounted a bid for a hotel in the Galician resort of Baiona. How the agreed price had obliged Mackenzie to seek a partner to spread his risk. And how a local introduction had brought another British businessman to the table. His name was Alan Garfield and he’d put up a million euros.
‘You’ll want to know where that money came from, Mr Faraday.’ Tien turned to Winter. ‘Paul?’
‘Garfield has a casino in Richmond upon Thames. We checked it out. It exists. He owns it.’
‘So the money came from there, as far as my clients were aware. Are you clear about that, Mr Faraday?’
Faraday nodded. He was still looking at Winter.
‘Go on,’ he said.
Winter obliged. ‘As far as we were concerned, the deal was done. Then Mr Mackenzie heard a whisper that Garfield had been arrested on Class A supply charges. This was Saturday.’
‘Whisper?’
‘Information. Intel. From our point of view, of course, we couldn’t afford to ignore it. It’s a sweet deal on offer in Baiona but the last thing we need is tainted money to make it work.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Mr Mackenzie’s daughter was already down there. For reasons you know about, her private life’s a bit of a mess just now. Communication with her dad isn’t all it should be. She didn’t know about Garfield’s arrest, about the possibility of dirty money, and there was every chance she’d signed the deal.’
Winter described his own mad dash to Baiona. His boss wanted nothing more to do with Garfield. Winter’s job was to torpedo the deal.
‘And?’
‘It was messy. The contracts had been signed. It was a question of getting them back.’
‘From whom?’
‘Garfield’s missus and their lawyer.’
‘So what happened?’
‘We recovered the property.’ Winter shot a look at Nelly Tien. She gestured for him to carry on. ‘Like I say, it was messy. We had a couple of blokes with us. We caught up with Garfield’s missus at the airport. The lawyer took a bit of a slapping, I admit, but there you go …’
Faraday could picture the scene only too clearly. No wonder the lawyer had turned up at the rental desk in a bit of a state.
‘This is standard business practice?’ Faraday enquired drily.
‘Not at all, Mr Faraday.’ Tien shook her head. ‘What my client is trying to establish are the lengths to which he and his colleagues will go to stay within the law. In this case they were acutely aware of their disclosure responsibilities under the money-laundering regulations and were doing their very best to comply.’
‘Assault is a crime,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘You’re telling me they broke one law to comply with another?’
‘That’s your interpretation, Mr Faraday. I need hardly add that we don’t agree. Means serve ends, in this case the right ends.’
‘So why didn’t you make a report?’ Faraday had returned to Winter.
‘About what?’
‘About the dodgy money?’
‘This was Sunday night, boss. We had to be sure about Garfield being under arrest. That took most of Monday. That night, which was last night, the boy got lifted.’ He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘And since then it’s been chaos.’
‘So here you are?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Playing it by the book?’
‘Yeah, and doing our bit for law and order.’ He sat back and grinned. ‘Any chance of a drink?’
It was gone midnight when Faraday got through to Willard. His mobile was on divert. The third call to the la
ndline at his Winchester address brought him to the phone. He’d obviously been asleep. Faraday had to go through parts of the story twice.
‘So what are you telling me, Joe?’
‘I’m telling you they’ve complied, sir. A day late, they admit, but the brief is pleading extenuating circumstances. We could still arrest them first thing but there might be consequences.’
‘Like?’
‘Like the brief would probably go public. Oppressive behaviour on our part. She used the word “vindictive” before she left. You can imagine the headlines - FAMILY IN TORMENT ARRESTED AT DAWN.’
‘Fuck the headlines. What do we do?’
‘That’s your call, sir, not mine.’
‘Have you been in touch with DCI Parsons?’
‘Yes. She told me to talk to you.’
Willard grunted something Faraday didn’t catch. The full implications of this latest news were beginning to catch up with him. Winter appeared to have admitted everything. What was there left to talk about?
‘They’ve committed an offence, Joe. We can have them for that.’
‘Early doors, then? The way we’ve planned it?’
‘No. You’re right. We need something else.’
Chapter twenty-two
WEDNESDAY, 28 MAY 2008. 08.12
To Winter’s surprise, Bazza turned up for breakfast. He’d raided the fridge at home and presented Winter with eggs, half a pound of Waitrose bacon, a tin of baked beans and fresh croissants from a bakery in Southsea. Expecting a major hangover from last night, Winter found himself trying to cope with Bazza at his most cheerful. Another surprise.
‘I had Nelly on the mobe, mush. She told me how savvy you’d been.’
Winter had yet to break the news about his late-night visit to the Bargemaster’s House. The fact that Nelly Tien had spared him the trouble came as a bit of a relief. Bazza hated his staff going off-piste.
‘You OK with that, Baz?’ Winter was breaking eggs into the frying pan.
‘Totally. Nelly said we just snuck in under the wire. I told her to blame it on you.’
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